


a symphony of purposeful chaos (a coordinated dissonance)

by halogensleep



Category: World Wrestling Entertainment
Genre: Canon Lesbian Relationship, Charlynch - Freeform, Charlynch drabble, Domestic Fluff, F/F, Fluff, Lesbian Drabble, Lesbian Romance, Love, Protective Becky, Protective Charlotte, lesbian fluff, lesbian love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-02-27
Updated: 2019-02-27
Packaged: 2019-11-06 13:54:19
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,804
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17940962
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halogensleep/pseuds/halogensleep
Summary: Charlynch putting one another back together while being a pair of covert gentle lesbiansONE SHOT





	a symphony of purposeful chaos (a coordinated dissonance)

**Author's Note:**

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>  [ACCOMPANYING SONG](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G_K9xsSdgMs)  
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The universe works in fixed and unchanging ways. It’s predictable and methodical in it’s arbitrariness. The earth rotates the sun, atoms collide together billions of times a second, stars become black holes, black holes devour the stars, all of it seemingly unconnected, all of it an intrinsic web of reactions and developments. There was a beauty in that. A symphony of purposeful chaos. A coordinated dissonance.

In that regard, on it’s more well executed days, wrestling imitated the very blueprints of the universe itself; a careful dance of fixed motion that resulted in what appeared to be impossible on the surface of things.

It was that which originally drew Charlotte to wrestling. The fact her father was who he was had something to do with it too but not nearly half as much as the world liked to pretend. In the same way the sun never doubts its purpose, its divine birthright, Charlotte Flair never doubted what it was she had been designed to do. Her body was made not just to accommodate the heavy toll of wrestling, but to balance it with ease and grace, do it so well that her last name represented the golden standard. From the sinew of her shoulders to the staunchness of her thighs, she was made for great things.

 _Rebecca._ She was the answer to questions Charlotte was never quite smart enough to ask. All but the tender age of fifteen when she lumberingly ran towards this life with outstretched arms. Now, she moved in the same way the leopard stalks along the low, open twilight; quiet and profound in her hunger for only the biggest, most terrible beasts that could be bloodied and conquered.

And so they loved each other as dark things are supposed to be loved; in secret, passionately, between the teeth, hunting together, hunting each other, stuck in a game of fury and delight.

…

Her arms are so slender and warm, so fragile even, like hollow bird wings. In her mind, they could never have been tinier than they are right now tiredly draped over her naked collarbones, but Charlotte knows they once were.

“I’m probably crushing you,” Becky mumbles and tries to roll off her chest, careful to make her movements soft as if the women in the hotel room next door might know they’re in here, together.

Charlotte stops her, holds her, tucks her chin over the top of that ginger head until the troublemaker is a firefly caught in the mason jar of her joints. After a moment, she sighs and blinks, uncertain of how to tread the line with tact.

“You’re on the small side,” Charlotte whispers and realises how silly it sounds, growing flustered slightly. “What I mean to say is that you’re not crushing me, but even if you were? It would be a hell of a way to go. So can you just… stay here, like this, for me?”

“I don’t think I’ll ever stop feeling like this, sometimes,” Becky admits it softly in her vulnerability, embarrassed and ashamed for no good reason.

“It’s okay,” Charlotte whispers and hushes, and her fingers slip around the back of a slim, muscular thigh. “Just let me be your body’s friend on the days you’re not feeling up to it, okay?”

“I suppose you are quite good at that,” Becky kisses her jaw.

“Stay here,” Charlotte urges tiredly, refusing to let her warmth drift to another side of the bed. “Sleep here, be here _\- with me_.”

The body in her arms stiffens for a moment, and Charlotte can’t help but think she’s said something wrong. Just like that she becomes childlike, panicking and wishing that things could be as they were a moment ago.

“Alright,” Becky tentatively agrees with a smile, slackening and nuzzling for comfort slightly. “You’re going to make me love you a bit too much if you’re not careful.”

“Well, we definitely wouldn’t want that.” The calmness comes like an entire season of spring.

…

The sheets that tangle her limbs are wrestled with, the pillow fisted and whimpered against, and to compound the sleepy fear; the body in bed beside her is creeping closer, growing warmer, getting on top of her. It snaps her into a sudden state of awakeness, her breathing stilting and her skin gleaming with sweat. She is not safe beneath this weak winter moonlight, the alarms in her head toll loudly like church bells. Her fears are too big for the early hours of Thursday morning, too grand for hotel rooms in the sticks of nowhere worth writing home about.

A hand reaches over the centerline of the bed and touches her arm.

She kicks the body next to her as hard as she can, her bones and muscles reacting to threats and dangers remembered from a life lived so long ago she nearly forgot it was her own.

“Don’t hurt me!” It leaps and bounces off her tongue, suddenly aware she would be hit back twice as hard.

She lands on the floor and cowers with hands wrapped around her blonde head, fingers dug into a divot in the back of her skull, a pitted scar that was earned on the weary road back to herself. The dark blurry shadows of the room are all him, and they crane over her with wound back fists. She burrows her chin and tries to wake herself up, tries and fails.

“Oh my love,” it’s said so softly, so lovingly, whispered without an ounce of malice. “It’s alright, you’re having a bad dream. You’re okay, you’re here with me...”

She freezes and cannot get up, the residual fear will not let her, but, she is safe and that truth is being realised on a moment to moment basis. The thought of being touched reignites her fear, and old wounds are suddenly sore and cautious to dim. Charlotte sits there and tries to hush her throbbing scars silent, the reassuring figure in the bed crawling slightly over the sheets but stopping a safe distance away.

“It’s alright to be scared,” Becky’s voice is soft and certain. “You don’t have to be brave all the time, not in front of me, love.”

“I’m not weak.”

“I didn’t say that.”

“I’m sorry I kicked you… I didn’t, I didn’t realise it was you...” She wants to cry for her humiliation, her throat clenches around the tightness of it.

“Well now… you once told me you kick the people you love the hardest, right?” Becky shrugs with a reassuring smile. “I should be flattered. Do you want to tell me what happened, my love?”

“I don’t want to talk about it, if that’s okay?” The thoughts are refused, and she will not grant this dingy hotel room the honour of being a pulpit to bare those sort of confessions. She wipes her small tears frantically as if they are a source of shame, as if, Becky might not love her the same way if she sees them.

“Of course.” The matter isn’t pushed. “So, are you getting back in bed or am I sleeping on the floor with you?” Becky lowers her tone softly, a measure of sternness lingering over the surface so that Charlotte knew the Irish woman was being perfectly serious.

It makes her laugh, and god does she resent it. The cracks within her soul were deep and accustomed too, and the fact they could be filled in and smoothed over with sleepy, croaked reassurances made her yearn to be difficult.

“Beautiful girl,” a kiss greets her knuckles as she gets back in bed. “You deserve a gentle epilogue.”

“We both do,” Charlotte promises.

…

There is blood dribbling off her nose, off her cheek, her chin, along her fingers, blood smeared over her forehead, the tops of her ears. It’s everywhere, and there isn’t a single patch of creamy light skin that is safe from it.

With flaming hair and crimson war paint coating her everything, she looks like a little Perses, her laughing mouth hungry for destruction. Charlotte stands and watches, impressed and horrified.

“What hurts?” Charlotte worries with her hands once the corridors have cleared.

“Nothing, I’m fine.” Becky refuses to be anything but proud.

“Stupid, so stupid,” her voice is so small and concerned, her thumbs wiping the blood out of her eyes. “We’re going to the hospital, right now.”

The little titan laughs at that, and the vibrato of her humour echoes the hallways like a defiant stag that has been wounded and refuses to stay down. It worries Charlotte, most of all it worries her because this girl so easily forgets how human she is.

“Tell me you don’t think I’m kind of hot like this?” Becky grins, her bright white teeth the only thing that remain unbloodied.

Charlotte grinds her jaw to a fine dust, she looks to the floor, to the ceiling, aware this is a fight she will lose.

“Ah,” Becky whispers knowingly, her voice softening. “You’re jealous… that’s what it is.” The teasing begins.

“You must have hit your head harder than I—”

“It’s alright, I won’t tell.” The troublemaker smirks, her brown eyes filled with love and adoration. “Come on, come put your man back together again.” She pats her bicep.

“I’m not your little damsel in distress,” Charlotte folds her arms, waning slightly.

“Tonight you are,” Becky whispers.

…

“Do you have Advil in your suitcase?” The bruiser croaks tiredly.

“Is this you admitting you have a headache?” Charlotte cracks open an eyelid, peering at the human concussion.

“No.”

Charlotte just sighs and clambers out of the bed from her side of the blankets, not pushing the matter. “One or two?” she asks with a raised brow.

“Two please.”

…

She is not one to be outdone.

The desk does not break, and so the full impact of the ladder jump is dissipated through her ribs instead. The pain is instant, the stadium suddenly quiet, the plan of fixed motions suddenly halted.

If getting up and finishing this match doesn’t kill her, then the Irish woman will for the mere fact that she dared to try.

…

“You’re hurt,” Becky insists and doesn’t let her move.

The knocks came tentatively on the hotel door, so softly that it couldn’t be mistaken for anyone else other than the Troublemaker. Charlotte had limped quickly to the door to let her in, just in case any other personnel were on the same floor who might find it worth mentioning that The Man was lurking outside Charlotte Flair’s room at two in the morning.

“My poor girl,” Becky whispers, carefully minding the purpling of her ribs and spine as her fingers assess the damage. “All busted up and bruised.” She tsks.

“You know I can’t let you have all the fun.”

“Show off.”

 

 

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